Isn't It Wonderful?
by Moon Raven2
Summary: Inspired by Sienna's prompt to retell a classic Christmas story, I've chosen It's a Wonderful Life. What would the world be like if Aaron Hotchner had never been born? Chapter 7, just in time for the new year.
1. A Wish

**Isn't It Wonderful?**

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**a/n:** I should stop reading the TV prompt forums; they get me into way too much trouble. :D This time I was inspired by Sienna's request that someone retell a classic Christmas story using the CM gang. I chose _It's a Wonderful Life_ because it's one of my very favorites, and the holiday prompt is the one from House...because obviously there is a guardian angel in the story. Sort of. My angel is kind of...well, you'll see.

Um, here's the deal. This first chapter obviously deals with suicide, since that's what pretty much motivates the whole plot. Also, this story is in general going to be a good deal darker than Frank Capra's version. I love Frank Capra's movies, don't get me wrong, but I'm just not that feel-good. :)

I was going to wait to publish this, but I'm having a really bad night, and I'm hoping some kind reviews will help pull me out of my doldrums. :) Thank you, loving readers.

**Disclaimer(s):** I own neither Criminal Minds nor _It's a Wonderful Life_. Thanks to Jeff Davis, Philip Van Doren Stern, Frank Capra, et al., for creating them and letting me play. :)

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**Chapter 1: A Wish  
**

**Prompt(s):** House - "Guardian Angels"  
Buffy the Vampire Slayer - "Doppelgangland"

**Go to my room and I close my eyes;  
I make believe that I have a new life.  
I don**'**t believe you when you say  
Everything will be wonderful someday**  
-Everclear, "Wonderful"

Aaron Hotchner couldn't stop staring at his hands. They were abraded, broken, throbbing. He could still feel Foyet's skull giving under his barrage of punches. He could still smell the blood, the piss, the fear – Foyet's fear. A man who could feel no remorse _could_ fear his own death, especially when it's coming by way of two furious, pummeling fists.

He could smell Haley's blood, too.

He could hear her voice. The tears. The courage. The love.

That broke his heart most of all: even after everything he'd done, after all the times he'd disappointed her and hurt her and let her down, her voice had still been so filled with love for him. Even as Foyet pointed the gun at her and told her who had caused all of this, the love was still there. It was nearly unfathomable to him.

His shoulders shook, but no tears came. He was out of tears, dried up and spent. Scraped raw, turned inside out, and left to wither in the cold, sunless existence of _after_. _After_ he listened to the woman he still loved die. _After_ he beat a man to death with his bare hands. _After_ his son was a hair's breadth from death because of _his_ arrogance and stupidity.

The gun's barrel yawned before him, wide and dark and welcoming. He knew how to do it: one simple shot and everything would be over. Aim up through the roof of your mouth, otherwise the bullet could just bounce around your brainpan and you end up a vegetable forever…

He slid the gun between his lips; relished the taste of cold metal and gun oil. He locked his teeth around the barrel; wrapped a finger around the trigger.

Jack was better off with Haley's sister. The man who caused his mother's death didn't deserve to have a hand in the shaping of his young life. The team would be fine without him; he'd been a shitty leader since the attack anyway, and Morgan was doing a good job.

He started to squeeze the trigger, but at the last minute pulled the gun from his mouth. Wait. He had to make it look like an accident or Jack wouldn't get the life insurance. He lowered the gun to his lap and stared down at it, pondering. Could he make it look like the gun went off accidentally as he was cleaning it?

His mind was cycling through a variety of possibilities when a knock at the door intruded on his thoughts. He ignored it, but it persisted, getting louder as the seconds passed.

Frowning deeply, Hotch rose to answer. Checking the peephole, he saw a man he didn't recognize, and he opened the door cautiously.

"Hello, sir," the man said in a friendly, warm voice. It was an odd voice, both intimidating and comforting at the same time, and it made him blink in consternation as he tried to make sense of it. Strangely (and he wasn't a man prone to such whimsy), it reminded him of both the thundering of a waterfall and the gentle roll of a brook over stones; the deep clanging of bells and the soft whisper of the wind through aspen leaves. "I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?"

His frown transformed into a scowl. "I'm not interested. Thank you." He started to slam the door closed, but the man slid his foot into the gap.

"Please, sir, just a moment. I'm not selling anything. I'm not peddling any religious pamphlets. I just think I'm someone you would be interested in speaking to."

His eyes narrowed as he looked the man up and down. There was something…curious…initially Hotch had pegged him for his mid-sixties, but now he seemed much younger, younger than the agent himself. He stared into the man's young-old eyes, and something he saw there…He took a stumbling step back, and the door fell open.

"Thank you, young man. I promise you won't regret it." The man stepped inside and locked the door behind him. "Can never be too careful these days, you know. The world is sometimes a crazy place."

Hotch, who should have been both irritated and alarmed by this man's intrusion, instead only grunted, shrugging his shoulders. "You can say that again." He turned away to throw himself back onto the couch, resuming the face-off with his weapon.

"What've you got there?" the man said mildly as he perched on the nearby chair.

"A gun. I'm trying to figure out how I can use it and make it look like an accident."

"Hmmm," the man replied mildly. "That might be tricky. Everyone knows what a good shot you are. You were SWAT, after all; not many SWAT guys accidentally shoot themselves in their own homes."

Hotch blinked up at the man, his dark eyes clouded with confusion. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

"Yes, and also no. I'm Clarence."

"Clarence," he repeated. Odd name; rather old-fashioned. "What are you doing in my apartment, Clarence?"

"I'm here to help you, Aaron."

If he were surprised that the strange man knew his name, he didn't show it. He was too numb to be surprised. "Help me? What in God's name could you possibly do to help me?"

He seemed amused by the question; ageless eyes twinkled in the lamp's pale light. "So you believe in God, do you?"

"I thought you weren't here pushing religious pamphlets."

"I'm not. It was just an innocent question."

"There's no such thing."

"Ah, of course. Are you going to profile me, Aaron?"

He looked away, stone-faced. "No. No more profiling for me."

The man looked crestfallen. "What a shame. You're really very good at it, you know."

"I was. Once. Now…" He shook his dark head. "There's nothing left for me, Clarence. I can't trust my own instincts anymore."

"That must be a terrible feeling for a man like you," Clarence commiserated. "But surely there's something left. You have your son. What about Jack?"

"As long as I can make this look like an accident, Jack's better off with me dead."

"That can't be true. How hard would it be on a little boy to lose both parents so suddenly and tragically?"

He ran strong hands through his hair, scrubbing his scalp warily. "I don't know. I don't…I guess it would be better for him if I'd never been born. Better for Haley. Better for all of them."

Clarence raised a brow. "Do you mean that?"

Hotch glanced at him curiously. "Who the hell _are_ you?"

The man smiled enigmatically. "A friend, Aaron. That's all you need to know. Now tell me: did you mean what you said about having never been born?"

He huffed out a breath; spread his hands in defeat. "Yes, Clarence, I meant it. I wish I'd never been born."

There was a small, expectant silence like the world holding its breath. Clarence's merry eyes were suddenly unfathomably deep, unimaginably old. Hotch felt dizzy looking into them, as though he'd stepped too close to the edge of an abyss. "It's done, then," he said in a soft, resonant voice. "You were never born. There is no Aaron Hotchner. I suggest we leave before the owner of this apartment comes home."

"What are you talking about? _I'm_ the owner of this apartment."

He smiled a little. "Not anymore, young friend." His head cocked like a bird's. "Here they come, I think. Perhaps put away the gun and try to look confused and innocent?"

There was the sound of a key in the door, and the panel slowly began to open. Hotch burst to his feet, gun raised, and as the door opened a woman saw him; dropped her groceries; screamed fit to wake the dead.

"Who are you and how do you have a key to my apartment?" Hotch demanded, trying to make himself heard over the woman's screams.

"What the hell!?" someone cried from out in the hall. "Call the cops; there's some guy with a gun in Sheryl's apartment!"

"My name is Aaron Hotchner; I'm an FBI agent. I live here. I'm going to reach for my badge now." Holding the gun with one hand, he reached into his pocket with the other. He searched a moment; checked the other pocket. No wallet; no credentials. What the hell?

"Clarence! Explain, please!" he said, glancing over his shoulder.

The strange man was gone, the woman was still screaming, and Hotch thought he could hear sirens in the distance.

* * *

_Holy insanely fast police response time, Batman! Yeah, I know. But, honestly, how long could I drag this scene out before the cops came? :)_

_Let me know what you think with a review, lovely readers. I need warm fuzzies right about now.  
_


	2. Down the Rabbit Hole

**a/n:** I know alerts weren't working until earlier today, so thank you so much for those of you who found the story and reviewed it! I really appreciate it. :)

I was waiting to publish this chapter for alerts to work again, and now they're back, so here we are. :)

Drop me a review, please, my dear readers; I do enjoy them so!

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**Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole**

**Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.  
**-Lewis Carroll, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_

"Ok, buddy, let's go over this one more time."

"I'm not your buddy," Hotch replied coldly, not deigning to spare the man a glance.

"Whatever. You wanna be a hard ass, fine. Tell it to me again, hard ass," the cop said, bending over Hotch in what was intended to be a threatening manner.

The seasoned agent rolled his eyes; sighed in a put-upon way. "My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner. A man named Clarence – last name unknown – stole my wallet and my credentials. You can contact Section Chief Erin Strauss at Quantico to confirm my identity. Or, maybe, SSA David Rossi. Or SSA Derek Morgan, the acting Unit Chief of the BAU."

"And you're a member of this BAU?" the other cop asked, tenting his fingers in an attempt to look attentive.

"The Behavioral Analysis Unit, yes. I am – or was – Unit Chief."

"Uh huh. _Was_. What happened there, hotshot?"

Hotch gritted his teeth. They'd been over this half a dozen times. "I told you. I'd rather not repeat it all again."

"Humor us," the first cop said.

"When George Foyet – the Boston Reaper – reemerged, he came after me, and then he went after my family. They were put into protective custody, but due to the emotional strain, I voluntarily stepped down from my position as Unit Chief on a temporary basis," he ground out.

"Right. Now explain to us how you know the identity of the Boston Reaper. What's next, you unmask Jack the Ripper?"

Their humor was wearing thin. "I was originally assigned to the Reaper case ten years ago. We didn't catch him then because he made a deal…look, this has all been in the papers. What happened yesterday was all over the news. The Reaper…he…he killed my wife, and I killed him."

"You confessin' to a murder now?" the more aggressive cop – Delaney, his name was – asked with a glance at his partner.

"_No_. Look, the FBI knows what happened. They're investigating now. I killed him—" He held up his hands and went cold. In all the drama, he hadn't noticed the lack of pain. Now he saw that his formerly bruised and battered hands were whole, undamaged. He blinked; flexed his fingers.

"Somethin' wrong with your hands?" Delaney asked.

Hotch pulled up his shirt, causing the two cops to jump back in surprise. "Look, Del, he's strippin' for us!" the second cop said.

"The scars," he whispered, running a hand over his abdomen. "I had…there were nine scars where Foyet stabbed me."

The two men exchanged wary glances.

"I know what you're thinking," Hotch said without looking up at them. "I'm not crazy. Just contact the FBI and check out my story, alright? They'll confirm it. Section Chief Erin Strauss. She doesn't like me much, but she sure as hell knows who I am."

"Alright," the second cop – Mahoney – said as he hoisted Hotch up from the chair. "We'll call the FBI. Hell, maybe they _are_ lookin' for you. In the meantime, it's holding. Don't bother the drunk, ok?"

Still dazed and confused by his lack of scars, Hotch allowed the cops to lead him to the holding tank and throw him in. The door clanged shut behind him, and as his gaze roamed the small space, he couldn't help but notice the figure sprawled out on the cot. The drunk, he guessed. Sighing, Hotch found a spot on the bolted-down bench and settled in for a wait.

"Ah, young Aaron, we meet again," a familiar voice said.

Hotch closed his eyes; leaned his head back against the wall. "Where did you come from?"

The drunk sat up, smiling merrily, fathomless eyes twinkling infuriatingly. "That's an interesting question, and it has several very long, complicated answers. Perhaps such a discussion should wait for another time, eh?"

Hotch rotated his head; squinted at the strange man. "Look, Clarence – or whoever the hell you are – I want my wallet back. These guys think I was breaking into some woman's apartment, and apparently they haven't opened a newspaper or turned on the TV any time in the last week."

"I don't have your wallet," the man said quietly.

He sighed, brow furrowing. "Fine. It doesn't matter. They're calling Strauss now; this'll all be straightened out in a few minutes."

Clarence offered a sigh of his own, this one like a gust of wind along a canyon bed. "No, Aaron, I'm afraid it won't be. Ms. Strauss has never heard of you, and she'll tell the officers that."

"You're crazy, you know that? I don't have time for ridiculous games. If you're not going to be any help, then just shut up."

"I can help you, but only very little." He held out a card, simple and unadorned, with only a name and a phone number printed on it. "When those men come back and give you the bad news, call her. She won't know you, either, but she will help you. Tell her I sent you."

"Garcia?" Hotch demanded as he read the name. "That isn't Garcia's number. I told you I don't have time for this bullshit."

The man pressed his palms together, and Hotch observed again how strangely ageless – and yet ancient – his hands looked. His skin was porcelain pale, parchment thin, but at the same time he had an odd and unexpected…vigor…that one only associated with the young. "I don't expect you to believe me, Aaron. I knew you would be a difficult case. Just keep the number. Consider Penelope a sort of…oracle, if you will; a voice to guide you on your journey. The Greeks had the Pythia; you have Penelope. Be thankful your oracle doesn't spend her time getting high on gas vapors."

Hotch eyed him; accepted the card reluctantly. "I must be losing my mind."

"No, my friend, not losing it. Just…rearranging it a bit." He yawned hugely and stretched wiry arms above his head. "I find myself growing weary. To sleep, young Aaron, perchance to dream. Farewell for now; I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon." He curled up on the cot again, giving every appearance of the passed out drunk he'd seemed when Hotch entered the cell.

"Alright, hotshot, game's up. Your Section Chief Strauss just told me to go fuck myself," Delaney's obnoxious voice barked from outside the bars.

Hotch raised a brow. "That sounds like her. What else did she say?"

"She's never heard of you. Got any more bright ideas?"

He frowned down at the card in his hand, Clarence's odd words echoing in his beleaguered mind. "Yeah," he said at last, "I'd like to make a phone call."

Delaney shrugged. "Fine, G-Man, let's go."

Once at the payphone, Hotch felt like an idiot. Garcia would laugh her ass off at this. He sighed, lifted the receiver, and dialed. It seemed like an eternity before he heard her familiar voice, though it sounded more strained than he'd ever heard it. "Who are you and how the hell did you get this number?"

Hotch blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Um. Garcia, it's Hotch. You're going to laugh, but—"

"Hotch who?" she interrupted. "I don't know a Hotch. Is that a codename?"

He stared at the phone in his hand, thoroughly nonplussed. He pressed the receiver to his ear again and cleared his throat. "I…a…a friend gave me your number."

"None of my friends would've given anyone who sounds as much like a cop as you do my number. I'm two seconds away from hanging up unless I get some hard info."

_A cop? I sound like a bumbling moron._ "Clarence gave it to me, Garcia. I need your help."

The silence was deafening, and he was beginning to think she'd hung up on him when, at last, "I'm sending someone now. She'll be there in five minutes."

"What? Garcia, who—" _Click_. He stood blinking idiotically until the blare of the disconnect signal began sounding in his ear. He hung up and turned back to Delaney and his smug face. He had no idea who Garcia was sending, but she'd better be damn good to get him out of this weird, screwed up mess.

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_It's hard writing Hotch so...confused. He's always Mr. Pulled Together. Tricky business. :)_

_Let me know what you think, dear readers!  
_


	3. The Lawyer and the Hacker

**a/n:** Thank you for the reviews for last chapter! I'm glad you're all enjoying the story; I know it's a little dark for holiday time, but he's gotta learn!

Enjoy chapter 3, and drop me a review if you please. :)

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**Chapter 3: The Lawyer and the Hacker**

**The price of getting what you want is getting what once you wanted.  
**-Neil Gaiman, _Sandman_, "Dream Country"

"I'm Elle Greenaway. How long have you been holding my client? Has he been advised of his rights? What are the charges against him?" the tall, no-nonsense brunette demanded as she strode into the police station.

Delaney held up both hands in mock surrender. "Look, lady, your client waived his rights. We know our job. It woulda been a simple B&E if he hadn't started yellin' about bein' FBI, about knowin' the Boston Reaper. Now we got a certified nut job on our hands, and it ain't so simple. We can't find any record that he even exists, and his weapon isn't registered anywhere. The guy's a ghost."

Elle glared at the glib, condescending man through dark, narrow eyes, struggling to maintain a mask of disdain in the wake of such strange information. "I'm advising him to not say anything further. I want him arraigned immediately."

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say," Delaney said. "Hey, is he really FBI?"

She tossed a contemptuous glare over her shoulder as she headed to the interview room. "My client is neither crazy nor a liar," she bit out before slamming the door behind her.

Delaney and Mahoney shared a glance. "Never used his name," Mahoney remarked, leaning back in his chair.

"This shit just gets weirder and weirder," Delaney agreed.

* * *

Hotch hastily got to his feet as the woman slammed into the room, and his face sagged with relief at the sight of her. "Elle! Garcia said she was sending a lawyer; I had no idea—"

"I don't know who you are or how you know my name, but sit down and shut up," she hissed. "Garcia asked me to get you out of this mess, and I'm going to do that, but I don't want to know anything, understand? You're being arraigned soon, and if you give a damn about your freedom, you'll shut your mouth and let me do all the talking. No more claiming to be FBI. No more crazy rambling about the Boston Reaper. Stand there and look confused and innocent."

He stared at her in bewilderment before he cleared his throat; spread his hands flat against the tabletop in front of him; stared down at them, his face a stoic mask. "I understand," he said quietly. "How…how long have you been a lawyer?" He wanted to ask her a thousand other things, but clearly there was something going on here that he couldn't begin to comprehend; he decided it would be best to tread carefully from now on.

"Five years," she replied warily.

He glanced up sharply, dark eyes hooded. "So you never joined the BAU?"

She looked blank a moment before her own eyes widened; mouth fell open a bit in surprise. "I assume you mean the B_S_U, but how did you know…?"

"The BSU? The Behavioral _Science_ Unit?" That was the Unit's old name; it had been changed years ago.

She gave him a curious look, and he watched her decide not to pursue it. "I was a cop for years; I tried to get into the BSU, but I kept hitting a brick wall. I think it was sexism, personally, but that's just my opinion; bunch of maverick wannabe Dirty Harry's chasing down serial killers like…like…"

"Dirty Harry?" he suggested mildly.

She glared at him a moment, but then relented with a slight quirk of her lips. "Exactly. I finally got sick of it all and decided I needed a career change."

"I see. And how did you meet Garcia?"

"Every hacker needs a good lawyer," she replied.

"Hacker? Garcia isn't with the Bureau?"

Elle's eyes narrowed again, suspicion etched into every line of her body. "No; she resigned a few years ago, after she was shot. You seem to know a lot about us, but…"

"I, um…you said you didn't want to know."

She shook her head again. "I meant it; I don't. Look, Mister…?"

"Hotchner. Aaron Hotchner."

"Mr. Hotchner. I'm going to get you through the arraignment, but then I think it would be best if you sought other council. I'm only here because Garcia asked me to come; I did it as a favor to her."

He nodded, resignation slipping over him like an uncomfortable suit. "I understand. Thank you for coming; I didn't realize how much I needed a good lawyer."

Her full mouth lifted. "Very few people do, Mr. Hotchner."

* * *

Several hours later, an astounded Aaron Hotchner was being escorted through a series of locked doors on his way to see Penelope Garcia. The place was wrapped up tighter than Fort Knox, and he realized she'd gone way, way off grid since the attack. No wonder she'd sounded so paranoid on the phone.

When he finally reached the inner sanctum – a small, well-ventilated room full of flashing computer monitors, really very similar to her cubby back at Quantico – he felt his mouth curving down at the sight of Penelope Garcia so altered. She was quite thin in a wasted, ill way that didn't suit her, and her platinum hair was dyed black. She was dressed simply in black jeans and a black T-Shirt, and her face was unpainted. There wasn't a troll doll to be seen, and the lack of flowers, butterflies, glitter, and anything squishy and/or colorful was alarming. Her eyes were the strangest, though: hard, suspicious, and looking as though she hadn't laughed in a long, long time.

"Who are you and how do you know Clarence?" she demanded of him immediately.

He sighed; wondered how much to tell her. "My name is Aaron Hotchner. Clarence is…I don't know who he is. He came to my apartment earlier today and somehow set all of this nonsense in motion. I just want to figure out what's going on so I can go home."

She raised a brow at him. "I can't see that you have a home to go to, Mr. Hotchner." She gestured to the monitors flanking her. "I can't seem to find any record of you at all. Since you seem to know me, I think you'll recognize how unusual that is."

He nodded wearily. "It was a problem the cops had, too."

"I think you owe Clarence a big thank you. That judge had no reason to let you out; I'm surprise he didn't ship you off to Gitmo without a second glance."

"What would Clarence have to do with it?" he asked, brows drawing together.

"He has his fingers in a lot of pies, from what I can gather. He doesn't exist, either." She said this last in a confiding sort of tone, as though Hotch were expected to understand perfectly.

He understood nothing. He felt like a fish out of water, suddenly thrust into an alien world where he couldn't catch his breath, and now he flopped around on the shore, mouth opening and closing in a hopeless, pleading gape. He'd never felt so lost before. "Garcia, please, I need your help. I do know you – or I did – and the woman I knew wouldn't ever turn away someone asking for her help."

She frowned deeply, lines he'd never seen before springing into existence on her haggard face. "Elle told me you know I used to work for the Bureau."

"That's how I know you. I'm FBI; I was Unit Chief for the BAU…I guess…I guess you guys call it the BSU." Whoever the hell "you guys" were. Wherever the hell he'd suddenly found himself.

She let out a little chuckle. "You really are lost, buddy."

"Like Alice down the rabbit hole," he agreed ruefully.

Garcia seemed to consider him for several more moments before she nodded. "Being the compassionate soul that I am, I will help you. Tell me how your oracle of the information superhighway can serve you today." She swiveled around in her chair, hands poised above the keyboard.

Her use of the word 'oracle' gave him pause, but he was heartened to hear a little of the familiar Garcia in this stranger before him. "Tell me about your time with the Bureau. I need to know where the rest of the team is. Morgan, Reid, Prentiss, J.J., Rossi. Even Gideon. Someone has to be able to help me figure all this out."

Her fingers faltered on the keys; her body went still. "How do you know about Morgan and Reid?" she whispered.

"I told you, Garcia. Are they still with the B…the BSU? Should I just go to Quantico?"

Her mouth twisted. "Hardly. I can tell you where they are without even looking. Derek Morgan is in jail for murder. Spencer Reid is dead."

He flinched, but didn't stumble, as he wanted to. Instead his face only grew harder, his will more iron. "Tell me, Garcia."

She sighed and, reluctantly, began typing. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she muttered as images began flashing across the many screens.

Hotch stared, eyes growing wider as he read, and he felt himself falling even further down the dark, bottomless rabbit hole.

* * *

_I know that the name was changed well before Hotch joined the BAU, but I'm using the old name here to illustrate just how different things are without Hotch. We'll read more about that next chapter. :)_

_Reviews get you on the "nice" list!  
_


	4. What He Wanted

**a/n:** I was so thrilled with the reviews for chapter 3! They really cheered up my llllooonnng day; I was up at 4am to open, had to jump start my car in the freezing cold, worked, then spent 2 hours at Sears getting my car battery replaced...Happy Almost-Christmas to you, too!!

All those reviews really helped get my muse's motor runnin', so let's continue on that theme, ok? I want to get this story finished before next year...

Enjoy, my lovely readers!

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**Chapter 4: What He Wanted**

**If you don't have a name, what do people call you? I mean, do they just wave and smile, or jingle little silver bells or what?**  
-Neil Gaiman, _Sandman_ #43, "Brief Lives: 3"

Images flashed across the screens almost faster than he could process them, but one caught his eye. "Wait, stop. Go back."

She glanced at him before flipping a few pages back, and he leaned forward to study the newspaper article. There was a picture of Reid, Reid the way he looked a few years ago, awkward and geeky and skinny, with the heavy horn-rimmed glasses he'd stopped wearing. "Henkel," Hotch ground out as he scanned the article. "He was killed by Tobias Henkel?"

Garcia nodded slowly. "Yes. Gideon blamed himself; I think it was the last straw, the final failure that lead him to…" She trailed off, and her eyes darted back to the screen.

"Lead him to what?" Hotch demanded.

She said nothing, merely brought up another article. "Suicide?! I don't believe it. Gideon would never—" He stopped short, realizing that even the strongest of men sometimes reached a breaking point. Hotch had. "You said Reid's death was the last straw. What else? Tell me about Morgan."

She swiveled the chair around to face him. "He was arrested in Chicago only a few months before Reid was taken by Henkel. Apparently he killed three young boys."

Hotch stared at her in astonishment. "Do you really believe that, Garcia?"

She looked away. Fidgeted. "It doesn't really matter what I believe, does it?" she asked in a strangely thick voice. "The profile fit. Gideon's profile. The final nail in his coffin was when a well-respected figure in the community testified against him; he ran the local youth center, and he'd been a sort of surrogate father to Morgan."

Dark brows drew together over furious, flashing eyes. "Didn't the team go to Chicago? Didn't they try to prove Morgan's innocence?"

"Team? What team?"

"The…the BSU team, Garcia. _Morgan's_ team."

Garcia blinked. "It's not really a _team_, per se. It's just…a group. A group of men who go around and interview serial killers, or sometimes present profiles to local law enforcement. You know, separately; there's no team."

Now Hotch did stumble. He raised shaking hands to his splitting head. "I don't understand. How can any of this _be_?"

"Are you ok? Do you need to sit down? Maybe you could tell me how you know all these people, and why you're so convinced their lives should be different."

"You don't understand, Garcia: their lives are different, or they were. Gideon left the BAU, but he didn't commit suicide. Morgan didn't kill those kids, and the team helped prove it. We rescued Reid from Henkel. You were shot, but we found the guy who did it; you were still…you. Not this you, but the real you, with the crazy hair and the bright clothes, the inappropriate comments over speakerphone and the abnormal love of all things shiny."

She looked away, and something in her eyes tore at his heart. "Your way sounds better," she admitted softly. "I was shot, but then I was released by the Bureau when they discovered I'd been flagging certain cases at the request of the victims' families."

"Yes," Hotch agreed, "you were doing that. It's what brought you to your shooter's attention. He thought you were watching him. Tell me, Garcia: who's head of the BSU now?"

"David Rossi. He took over after Gideon's death. But it's nothing like what you describe. Do you understand that? I don't know who the hell you are or where you come from, but this world, our world, is not the same as the world you remember."

He nodded slowly, remembering Elle's disparaging description of his beloved Unit. "Ok," he said, normally stoic voice shaking, "one more thing. Show me everything you can about the Boston Reaper."

"That sicko? Why—" Something about his face stopped her mid-sentence, and she merely turned back to the keyboard and did as he instructed. Article after article flashed on the screens; from what he could gather, it seemed as though there had been no deal; no break. Foyet had been killing for years without being caught, and he'd turned into one of America's most prolific serial killers.

"Can you…can you get me a list of victims?" Hotch asked.

She nodded and typed a bit; a long list appeared on the main monitor. The senior agent leaned forward to get a closer look, and after a moment he pointed to a name. "There. George Foyet, the Reaper's only victim to survive. That's him."

"That's who?" she asked blankly.

"George Foyet is the Reaper. He stabbed himself so he could follow the investigation as closely as possible."

She blinked. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

His mouth was a grim line as he scanned down the list. "I know," he told her simply.

She started to flip away, but he pressed a hand against her shoulder to stop her. "What does that say?" he asked, pointing. "Tell me what it says."

Garcia looked back at him curiously, then turned to read the name. "_John Reynolds, 1999_?"

"No, the next one."

"Oh. _Haley Brooks, 2000_. Do you know her?"

"I…yes. I know her. She was my wife." His voice had gone dead, and when she turned again she saw that his face was ashen and carved with deep, hard lines.

"Your wife? You didn't know—"

"Foyet killed her yesterday," he whispered. "Not nine years ago; yesterday. In our bedroom. I killed him with my bare hands."

"Your hands look fine to me," she said, and to her credit she didn't flinch away from the impossibilities he was uttering.

He raised his hands, once again entirely baffled by their unblemished condition. He clenched his fingers into fists; dropped them to his sides like the dead weights they were. "I should…I should go. I've bothered you enough," he muttered.

Her brow creased in concern. "Are you sure that's wise? You're a ghost. It's not safe to go wandering around without an identity, and you seem really confused."

"No," he replied, "I need to walk. I need air. I have to clear my head. I feel like I'm in a bad _Twilight Zone_ episode."

She made a face. "That show is so depressing. Have you ever tried watching a _Twilight Zone_ marathon? You'll want to slit your wrists by the end of it."

"Yeah. You think watching it's bad, try living it."

"I—" She shook her head, realizing further protests were futile. "Here," she said, thrusting a tin at him, "at least take some cookies. For the road."

He stared down at the little tin, then back up at her. "You baked me cookies once before, when I returned to work after Foyet's attack."

Garcia offered him a pained little smile. "That sounds like me, I guess. At least the me you remember. I'd like to be that me again."

"You're still you, Garcia; you're the woman who sends a complete stranger a lawyer because he needs help. You're the woman who offers that same, possibly deranged, stranger cookies because you can't bear to see someone in pain. The rest is just packaging."

She looked down, a blush rising in her cheeks. "I think I would've liked working for you," she admitted with a quick, flashing smile.

"I was a bully and a pain in the ass, but I took care of my team. I would never have let this happen to you, Garcia."

"I believe you. You may be crazy, but for some reason I believe you."

"Thank you," he said. He looked down at the cookies; back up at her. "For everything."

"You're welcome," she called after him as he turned and walked away.

* * *

_I know that was a lot of (rather upsetting) information to throw at you all at once, but I figured Garcia would be the best way for him to find out about the more scattered members of the team. Now, what about J.J. and Prentiss? Guess you'll just have to wait..._

_Thanks to _**chiroho**_ for cluing me in on Haley's maiden name. :)  
_

_I really wanted to have this whole thing written and posted by Christmas Day, but I'm not sure that'll happen. Maybe Boxing Day? I don't know. I _do_ know that all your kind, encouraging reviews help fire up my muse, so keep 'em coming!_


	5. Why We Bother

**a/n:** Thank you, as always, for all the reviews for chapter 4. I wrote this one very quickly as a result; it's just taken me a while to get it published. :)

I made a very minor change in 4 that you'll notice in 5 if you're sharp-eyed. Minor, but major.

I hope everyone had a safe and happy holiday, whether you celebrate Christmas or not. :) Enjoy the chapter, and toss me a review!

* * *

**Chapter 5: Why We Bother**

**It's never what they want, and if we give them what they think they want, they like it less than ever ... I don't know why we bother.**  
-Neil Gaiman, _Sandman_ #57, "The Kindly Ones: 1"

Hotch wandered dazedly along the busy sidewalk, occasionally bumping into people who gave him long, hard glares but kept their peace due to the strange look in his dark eyes. He was well and truly, as he'd told Garcia, down the rabbit hole. Through the looking glass. Lost in the fourth dimension. Do not adjust your television; you really are losing your damn mind. Everything he'd known and believed in was unraveling, and he was left like a lost, confused weaver holding the loose thread of his life, futilely trying to salvage the wrecked, warped pattern.

He raised shaking hands to his face. Rubbed his aching forehead in a futile attempt to achieve any sort of clarity. He couldn't process what he'd learned from Garcia. Reid was dead, killed by Henkel. Morgan's innocence hadn't been proven in Chicago, and he was now doing time for a crime he hadn't committed. Gideon had eaten his gun. The BAU was…was what it had been years ago, before profiling was a truly accepted means of crime fighting.

"Well, young Aaron, you got what you wanted. How does it feel?"

He didn't even glance over at the man who had fallen into step beside him. "You know what? Go to hell," he replied shortly.

Clarence burst into uproarious laughter, as though it were the funniest joke he'd ever heard. He doubled over on the sidewalk; held his stomach; rocked with mirth. "Oh, my sweet, innocent friend, you do make me chuckle," he gasped, wiping at streaming eyes as he straightened.

Hotch glared at him from beneath thunderous brows. "I'm glad my misery amuses you, but could you please explain to me what's going on?"

They were in front of a Starbucks, and Clarence pressed a gentle hand against the other man's arm. "Let me buy you something to drink."

"I don't want anything from you," he spat, jerking away from his touch as though it were poison.

Winged brows rose over clear, sky-blue eyes. "I'll explain, but first let's sit like civilized men. Please."

Reluctantly Hotch allowed himself to be led inside the warm coffee shop. Clarence ordered for them both, and Hotch was completely unsurprised when the other man correctly guessed his drink. They found a quiet corner and sank down into the comfortable chairs, sipping their hot drinks and (in Hotch's case, anyway) avoiding looking into the other's eyes. "You made a wish, young Aaron," Clarence declared without preamble.

Hotch blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Earlier today you wished you'd never been born. You remember."

He stared at the man with his mouth hanging open.

"There's no reason to gape at me like that," Clarence said. He looked suddenly…different. Uncanny. _Other_. "You got what you wanted. How does it feel?"

Hotch carefully placed the paper cup on the table and rubbed his palms against the dark wool of his tailored trousers. "You're trying to tell me…you actually expect me to believe…"

Clarence smiled, and the expression raised the hairs on the back of Hotch's neck. "You're an intelligent, analytical man, completely grounded in the tangible. Now I'm asking you to consider the evidence before you. Lively Ms. Garcia was shot, an event you remember well, but she was dismissed from the FBI, something you clearly don't recall. Young Dr. Reid was killed by poor, mad Tobias Henkel, even though you _know_ your team rescued him. Handsome Mr. Morgan is in jail for a crime he didn't commit, despite your perfectly lucid memories of proving his innocence."

He paused to study Hotch a moment and to take a sip of his whipped cream-topped confection before continuing. "Wise Dr. Gideon is dead by his own hand. While you have no direct knowledge of his fate, you do know that isn't how it happened in your memory. And then there's your lovely, sadly doomed wife—"

"Enough!" Hotch barked. "Don't you talk to me about Haley."

The man's grave expression conveyed such infinite compassion that it made Hotch's heart ache. He couldn't bear that look, so terrible and so beautiful. "Haley's fate was set, my somber young thinker. Even gods can't fight the Moirai. 'The gods were moved; but none can break the Sisters' iron decree.' That's Ovid, friend."

"I don't believe in fate," he rasped.

The man – if man he truly was, which even skeptical Aaron Hotchner was beginning to doubt – sighed like the wind through pine boughs and said, "I'll let you in on a secret: it matters very little what you believe or disbelieve. What is, is what is."

"If that's true, then there's no point. Haley was doomed to be killed by Foyet, so what was the point of me even trying to save her? What was the point of any of it?"

Clarence pressed his palms together, seemingly considering Hotch's question, but he could see from the man's strange, glowing eyes that he already had the answer in mind. "The point, my cynical friend? The point, quite simply, is love."

It was unexpected, and Hotch found himself gaping again. "Are you telling me the meaning of life can be found in a Beatles' song?"

He laughed like a flock of birds taking wing, all unfettered delight and childlike joy. "Exactly! John Lennon was a wise man. I know it sounds simplistic to one such as yourself, but it's true. You brought love to Haley's life: a marriage, a beautiful child. Your presence allowed the people around you to love one another. Dr. Gideon loved Dr. Reid as a son. Ms. Garcia and Mr. Morgan had a deep, soul-stirring friendship. You, my sticky friend, were the mortar holding it all together."

Hotch rubbed his strangely healed hands together. "You're saying I didn't bring Foyet into Haley's life; he would have found her anyway."

"Yes. The Sisters' patterns are not for us to comprehend. Surely you know that."

He looked away. It was almost something he could believe, Clarence's seemingly uncomplicated theory about life and love and all that sprang from the two. But he felt he had failed too many people too often to accept that his life, his existence, his influence could have such a profound effect on the universe. "She left me, you know," he said at last.

"People drift. Love is like matter: it can't be destroyed, not completely."

He raised a brow. "The Law says matter can't be created, either."

"Well, there you go. Neither can love, not really; it's always there, lurking in the corner like chocolate cake."

"Um." Hotch eyed Clarence; shook his head, briefly. "Chocolate cake?"

"Sweet and delicious. Ignore the flawed simile, if you please."

He let it go. "Garcia didn't tell me anything about J.J. or Prentiss," he said after a moment.

"Indeed? Hhhmm." Clarence sipped his hot chocolate contemplatively. "I suppose it's a good thing we chose this particular coffee shop, then." He nodded across the room, and Hotch followed the gesture with his eyes. "Pretty Ms. Jareau, at your service. Go say hello."

Hotch frowned. "She won't recognize me."

"No, of course not, but you're a decent enough looking fellow. She probably won't mace you as long as you stay calm and don't act a fool."

He sighed; ran a hand over his face. "Just tell me. J.J. and Will—?"

"Never met."

"So Henry?"

"Never born. Ms. Jareau never joined Bureau, since pontificating Mr. Rossi never left to write his many books; besides, the BSU has no need for a communications liaison. She does PR for dirty politicians."

Hotch winced at the thought even as another part of his mind chuckled at Clarence's description of Rossi. "Is she better off, do you think?" he asked hesitantly, though he felt he knew the answer.

"You tell me, profiler. Ms. Jareau cleans up sordid messes perpetrated by sleazy men who talk to her breasts and try to grope her rear. She runs away from any decent man she meets because she doesn't believe he can be real. Do you understand what you were to her, Aaron? You helped her to realize that good men do exist; without you, her heart is closed, guarded, and she doesn't know any other way to be. While, certainly, a woman's worth isn't determined by the men in her life, I do consider it very sad indeed that sweet Ms. Jareau has shut herself off from love so completely."

"You have a rather ridiculous obsession with love," Hotch remarked dryly.

Clarence shrugged airily. "A hazard of the job, I suppose."

He absolutely did not want to know what job the strange man was referring to, and he was frankly sick of this insane, riddling conversation. "I'm leaving now," he stated abruptly, gaining his feet like a tired old man.

"As you will," Clarence replied mildly. "We'll meet again, I'm sure."

"Oh, I have no doubt. You're like a bad penny."

The man smiled enigmatically. "More like a lucky one."

* * *

_Sorry it took my so long to get this one out; I've had an eye infection, and being on the computer is kinda torturous. As a result, I haven't written any further than this. :/ I'm working on it, though, if only in my head. :)_

_Go read Neil Gaiman's _Sandman_ if you're tired of waiting for me. It's quite long - 64 issues contained in 10 books - but it's beyond worth it._

_Keep the reviews coming, dear readers; they help my tired lil Muse do her thing. :)  
_


	6. Places Like That

**a/n:** I think this is the next-to-last chapter of this story! Hooray! I have 3 days off starting tomorrow, so it looks like I _will_ have it done before next year!! I'm very excited. :)

Thank you for all the lovely, wonderful reviews. They really helped to keep me inspired. If you're still enjoying, keep reviewing; I do still have another chapter to write. :)

* * *

**Chapter 6: Places Like That**

**"But I did look for you. All over."****  
"Hmph. Where were you looking? Patagonia? Mars? The Emerald City?"  
"Um. Places like that."  
**-Neil Gaiman, _Sandman_ #69, "The Kindly Ones: 13"

Hotch was back on the sidewalk, but he wasn't moving. He felt like a ship adrift at sea, buffeted by winds and waves until there was nothing left but kindling and a useless, flapping bit of sail. He pressed his back against a building and sank to the ground. Leaned his head against the bricks behind him and stared up at the gray sky above. He wasn't a praying man by nature, and like he'd told Clarence, he didn't believe in fate or destiny or Divine Providence.

He believed in the human mind. He believed in what he could observe and rationalize. He believed in thought and logic and evidence.

He did _not_ believe in granted wishes. He certainly didn't believe in the type of creatures who usually did the granting. He couldn't get his head around any of this. Clarence's string of evidence shaped up like, "a black cat crossed my path; later, I tripped; therefore black cats are bad luck." Except…

He allowed the train of thought to trail away; emptied his mind. Fighting with any of this was pointless. He figured he was actually strapped to a hospital bed somewhere, ranting and raving, while kind, patient nurses dosed him with Haldol and the team looked on with worried frowns. Poor Jack: his mother killed and his father gone crazy; at least he had his aunt to look after him.

"Hey, sir? Excuse me, are you ok?" a familiar, slightly husky voice cut through his thoughts. His eyes widened and his head jerked up, and he found himself staring into a pair of warm ochre eyes.

"Emily," he breathed.

She looked startled; took a step back. "I'm sorry; how do you know my name?"

He chuckled almost drunkenly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

The tall brunette regarded him carefully. She took note of the shell-shocked look in his dark eyes; she'd observed similar looks in the eyes of soldiers recently returned from war. Those eyes had seen sights they'd never hoped to see. He seemed harmless enough, just lost and confused, so she lowered herself to the sidewalk next to him, pulling her knees up to mimic his pose. "Try me," she challenged.

He cast her a wary look from the corner of his eye. "Promise you won't mace me?" Clarence had proposed the idea, and it didn't sound like a good time.

She laughed a little. "Promise." She held up her hand. "Scout's honor."

"You were never – never mind." Maybe she had been in this life. "You don't work for the FBI, do you?" he asked.

"I – no, not anymore." In for a penny, in for a pound; he'd warned her, after all, so she might as well just ride this whole thing out. There was something about him…something…not exactly familiar, but _comfortable_. She felt like he was someone she could trust, entirely, despite his current appearance.

"I know you from…I don't even know what words to use. The reality I remember is very different from this one. In my reality, you and I are colleagues. Friends. You're a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. It's called the Behavioral Science Unit here; another difference."

"Ah. Hhm." She swallowed. Watched the knees of people passing by. Wondered why the hell she was sitting on a dirty sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon listening to the ramblings of a crazy man. "I used to be with the Bureau; I applied to join the Behavioral Science Unit several times."

"You're an excellent profiler, but unfortunately your promotion to the BAU was because of me. You were sent to spy on me; to try to get me fired."

Her face creased in a frown. "You said we were friends. And I don't care how different the me you remember is from _me_ me, but I would never—"

"You didn't know," he interrupted quietly. "When you were told, you resigned."

A smile bloomed. She found herself strangely absorbed by his tale. "Now that sounds like me," she admitted.

He met her smile with a hesitant one of his own. "You came back, of course, but only after I dragged you."

She cleared her throat; looked away. "You said we were friends," she repeated. "It sounds like…it sounds like we meant a lot to each other."

He stared at her profile for a long time before dropping his gaze to his hands. "I…you…after I was attacked by a killer we'd been pursuing, you were the one who took care of me. Everyone did, but you…you took special care, I suppose. My first assignment in the FBI was to your mother's security detail, but we barely knew each other back then."

She turned to him, and her face wasn't shocked or frightened. If anything, she looked curious. Typical Prentiss, he thought; some things simply don't change. "So why is actual reality different from what you remember? Clearly you know things about me; how is that possible? You aren't stalking me, are you?"

He frowned. "You approached me, Prentiss, remember? No, I'm not stalking you." He ran hands over his face and up through his short hair, setting free cowlicks that she found boyishly endearing. "I don't know why it's all different, but everything is. Reid and Gideon are dead; Morgan's in jail; Garcia is a ghost of herself; Elle's a lawyer; J.J. does PR work that she hates…and you, Prentiss, what do you do?"

She raised a brow at him. "I work for the State Department as a translator."

"Sounds…stimulating."

She snorted. "Oh yeah. You said I was a good profiler in your reality."

"One of the best," he told her, not exaggerating. "I'm sorry you aren't able to use your talents…here."

"So do you think you're delusional?" she asked after a moment's consideration.

"Yes, probably. Except…I think what I remember must be real, and this must be my delusion. Otherwise, how do I know so much about the people I meet? Your name is Emily Prentiss; your mother is the ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss. You grew up all over the world; you went to Yale. Your favorite author is Kurt Vonnegut. You take your coffee light with two sugars. Your birthday is October 12; you graduated high school in 1989. Your favorite flowers are dahlias."

She shifted a little. "You could've gotten all that information from stalking me." At his look, she held up a hand. "I know, I know; _I_ approached _you_."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "This morning, back in the reality I know, I told a man I wish I'd never been born. Things went very strange after that."

"You should be careful what you wish for; you might actually get it," she told him matter of factly.

"You don't think…" He trailed off and shook his head; he couldn't even consider it.

"Why would you wish for something like that?" she asked quietly; watched him with intense dark eyes.

He made another long, careful study of his hands. "My ex-wife was murdered yesterday. My actions and my arrogance put her in danger; I couldn't protect her. My son could have been killed, too; it was pure luck that I got there before the killer had a chance to find him."

There was a quiet moment while she pondered, then, "You know what really pissed me off about the third _Star Wars_ prequel?"

Hotch blinked at the sudden question, seemingly apropos of nothing. "Um. No…?"

"Anakin became Darth, and Padme was really upset; I get that. But why, with these two babies who needed her, would she just give up and die? It was pathetic and stupid. She had a reason to live, and it sounds like you do, too. Your son?"

Her words shook him. Pathetic and stupid? Maybe she was right, but… "I just thought…I thought he'd be better off without me. He has an aunt—"

"That's bullshit. Take it from someone who grew up with a mostly absentee parent: nothing substitutes for your actual mother or father. Your son needs you now more than ever; you can't just _abandon_ him."

"But—"

She held up a hand, cutting him off. "If this is a delusion, it's time to wake up. If it's a poorly thought-out wish granted, you should find your fairy godmother and ask for a do-over." Her mouth quirked, briefly. "Besides, my life sounds way more exciting in your version; I think I miss it."

Trust Prentiss to cut through the fog and put everything in sharp perspective. "Hellish hours, demented serial killers, and random concussions: it's a life of constant glamour," he told her with a quick flash of dimples.

"Sounds fantastic," she agreed, grinning. Her face sobered; she looked away quickly. "Despite your apparent madness, I think I also regret not knowing you."

He opened his mouth to speak; hesitated. How much to tell her? He'd said she'd taken care of him after Foyet; he'd said she was an amazing profiler. But should he tell her how he looked forward to seeing her every day, to working with her, to learning the wonderful workings of her mind even more intimately? Should he tell her how her smile brightened his day and her laugh was probably the most contagious sound he'd ever heard? And should he tell her how the thought of continuing in this reality where she was nothing more than a kind stranger who looked at him with pity in her eyes made his heart ache like it was being put through a paper shredder? He snapped his jaw shut again and managed a weak smile. "You caught me on a bad day; I'm not normally crazy."

"No," she agreed, "you have a very sane face."

"Jack," he announced.

"I'm sorry? Is that your name?"

"No. Jack is my son. He does need me, and this is all just a cop out. I need to find Clarence." He rose quickly and held out a hand to help her up.

"Clarence," she said as she accepted his offer and got to her feet, "is that your fairy godmother?"

He smiled grimly. "Something like that. Thank you, Prentiss; you've been invaluable as usual." He paused a moment, wondering if he should say something more. Finally he just squeezed her fingers and turned away.

She watched him go, watched the crowd swallow him. She felt regret melting through her, like rain rolling down a window, and she decided to believe him. She wanted a life where that man, with his carefully tamed cowlicks and his hidden dimples, his broken heart and his piercing stare, was someone she could claim as a friend.

* * *

_I wanted Hotch and Prentiss to have an actual conversation, something that would help bring him some clarity. She tends to be good at that._

_In addition to finishing this one, I've also started working again on the next story in the Elliot Jackson series. I don't know how many of you have read those, but look for me to start posting the new one soon. :)  
_

_So now everyone's accounted for and Hotch has had some sense knocked into him. I guess that just leaves the finale. :) Toss me some reviews to help make the writing process a little smoother, dear readers. :)  
_


	7. Mighty Wings

**a/n:** I told you I'd have it done before next year. :) I'm cutting it a little close, but here it is all the same. Enjoy, and drop me some more of those lovely reviews!

* * *

**Chapter 7: Mighty Wings**

**I walk by her side, and darkness lifts from my soul. I walk with her, and I hear the gentle beating of mighty wings…**  
-Neil Gaiman, _Sandman_ #8, "The Sound of Her Wings"

Hotch didn't bother to wander the streets in search of Clarence. He knew the strange man would eventually show up if he just stayed put and waited. So that's what he did. He went back into the Starbucks and found a comfortable chair; grabbed an old copy of the paper from a nearby basket; and settled in to wait.

He'd just finished the sports page (pretty much the same as in his reality – he supposed his existence had no effect on major sporting events) when he looked up to see the very man he'd been waiting for sitting opposite him. His ageless face was creased in a patient smile. Hotch wondered how long he'd been there as he carefully folded the paper and set it aside. "I knew you'd show up eventually," he said.

Clarence raised his hands; shrugged a little. "I did tell you, after all. How was your conversation with the elegant Ms. Prentiss?"

"Enlightening," he replied succinctly.

"I'd hoped so," he said, eyes twinkling.

Hotch cleared his throat. Crossed one leg over the other. Uncrossed it again and set his feet on the floor. "I want to know who you are," he finally said.

Clarence went very still, impossibly still, as though he were carved from incredibly lifelike marble. "I don't think you do, my serious friend."

Hotch sighed in frustration; slumped back into the chair. "Could you at least tell me what you did to me? Was it some form of hypnosis?"

His face fell into lines that Hotch couldn't read. Disappointment, perhaps? As deep and endless as the sea. "I had hoped you would understand by now," he said in a low voice like the mournful elegy of old bells. "I did you the type of favor I give…" He waved a hand, as though the span of time were inexpressible.

"Favor?! What favor have you done me, Clarence?" Hotch fired back, struggling to keep his voice quiet so as not to be overheard by the coffee shop's evening patrons.

"Dear Aaron. Beloved friend. Do you not see? You were ready to give up. You thought you had nothing to live for. Now you know that the opposite is true; your life has touched the lives of so many others. You are the linchpin that holds your world together."

Hotch buried his face in his hands a moment. "I wouldn't have done it," he muttered, voice muffled. "I would never have left Jack."

Clarence reached out; touched the other man's shoulder with untold gentleness. "Yes, my disheartened friend, you would have. Trust me on that point if nothing else." His voice was soft, and filled with that same exquisite compassion Hotch had seen in his face earlier that day. It still burned like a brand against his heart.

"Maybe you're right," he murmured. "I don't know. I felt so…lost. Gone."

"And now?"

"Now I…" His face scrunched thoughtfully. "I loved Haley."

"Of course you did," Clarence replied quietly.

"I can't bring her back. All I can do for her now is be the best father I can be to Jack. It's all I have left."

"For Haley, yes. But for you? My friend, your entire life is at your fingertips. All you have to do is reach out and grasp it."

Hotch stared at him with keen dark eyes. "I should have told them what they meant to me. I should have told all of them, especially after…after Haley. They were just _there_, without words or questions. Just there."

"Some things don't need words. Your team is your family, and they would do anything for you. What would you do for them, young Aaron?"

He looked away; shook his head; met Clarence's impossibly deep blue gaze again. "I would live," he answered simply.

The man's smile was blinding, like looking into the noonday sun. "That's all I needed to hear."

"Wait," Hotch said, reaching out as the man stood to leave. "Wait. You're going?"

Clarence's face softened. "We'll meet again, my friend. I meet everyone again, in the end."

"What do you mean, in the—" Hotch broke off abruptly as he realized he was sitting in his apartment talking into the barrel of his gun. "Fuck!" he cried in outraged surprise as he checked the safety and hastily set the weapon aside. He scrambled up from the couch and whirled around in a circle. He was alone; the apartment was empty.

He fumbled for his phone. "Jessica!" he cried when the woman answered. "It's Aaron. No, everything's…I just…I wanted to check on Jack."

His entire body went limp with relief when he heard his son's voice over the phone. "_Hi, Daddy!_"

"Hey, buddy. How are you?"

"_I'm ok. I miss you. Are you coming to get me soon?_"

"Yeah, Jack. I'm on my way right now."

"_Ok, Daddy. I love you._"

He staggered; clutched his chest. "I love you too, buddy. Be good for your Aunt Jessica, ok? I'll be there soon." They said goodbye and hung up. Hotch collapsed onto the sofa and drew deep, gasping breaths. He was still shaking when the phone in his hand rang. He answered it warily.

"_Aaron? Er, Hotch. Um. It's Emily. Prentiss. I mean…it's Prentiss._" He heard her sigh, and he felt his mouth twitching with the urge to smile. "_I'm just calling to see if you or Jack need anything. I can make a run to the market for you? Or just pick up a pizza or something?_"

"I was actually just on my way to pick him up at his aunt's," he told her.

"_Oh_," she replied. "_Um. Well, listen, you know if you need anything I'm just a phone call away._"

"I…" He hesitated. "You know what, Prentiss? Emily. I think Jack and I could use some company for dinner. If you're up to it."

There was a small pause, and he could hear the smile in her voice as she said, "_That sounds great. You haven't lived until you've experienced my legendary take out ordering skills._"

He almost laughed. "I look forward to it. See you in an hour?"

"_An hour it is._"

He was smiling as he hung up. He wasn't sure if the events of the past several hours had happened, or were merely the products of his weary, grieving mind. Either way, he had been given a great gift, and he had no intention of wasting it.

Aaron Hotchner was alive, and he intended to live.

**[A]t times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on…  
She is dead. You are alive. So live.  
So live…**  
-Neil Gaiman, _Sandman_ #48, "Brief Lives: 9"

* * *

_In case you couldn't tell by the quotes, dear readers, as this story went on I found myself more and more inspired by Neil Gaiman's _Sandman_ and the fabulous characters who inhabit that world. I once again encourage you to go read it. You won't regret it, and you'll probably even thank me. :)_

_Now that both this story and "Princesses" are finished, I'm going to concentrate most of my creative efforts on the new Elliot Jackson story. Hopefully I'll be able to start posting it later this week or sometime next._

_Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think of the conclusion. :)_

_PS: I wouldn't normally do this, because I like to keep you guys guessing, but the quote at the beginning is about Death. Not an angel. ;)  
_


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